


Once and Future

by stcrmpilot



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Gallifrey (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: (a few little spoilers there probably), Angst, Audio: Gallifrey: Time War 2, Extremely Dubious Consent, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, big ol power imbalance cause it's rassilon, but nothing worse than some ordering around and faux-romantic gestures actually happens, some comfort but not a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 05:24:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20558960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stcrmpilot/pseuds/stcrmpilot
Summary: Narvin has never been one to shy from his superiors. Rassilon, however, is not like any superior he's ever had.





	Once and Future

**Author's Note:**

> Oof man. Oof.

Narvin has never been one to shy from his superiors. It’s a tool, confidence, one that he’s learned over the centuries to use with deftness and quiet restraint; it doesn't do for a person of his profession and standing to go about grovelling and brown-nosing, not because of a twisted sense of respect, not to curry favour, and certainly not out of fear. It brings him into conflict, sure, but it has also earned him a grudging respect in the eyes of most of his coworkers. More, on occasion. 

Rassilon, however, is not like any superior he’s ever had. 

His hearts are already beating just a hair too fast as he’s led into the President’s office (less an office, really, and more a throne room), leaving Romana to wait outside, much to her chagrin. His too, really; his mouth goes dry as soon as he sets eyes on the man waiting at his desk. He thinks there must be very few things in the universe he would trade for her company as he crosses the room, unable to hold Rassilon’s dispassionate but unbroken stare. He stops, a safe distance from the desk, and bows, and resists the urge to fidget. 

“My lord Rassilon,” he says, conscious of keeping his tone even and low. “You requested my presence?” 

He drags his gaze up to meet Rassilon’s, and finds him still watching with subtle intent. 

“Yes, Deputy Coordinator.” As always, the words make Narvin feel as though his tongue is covered in oil. “I did indeed.”

Narvin waits, but Rassilon doesn’t continue. The deliberate failure to get to the point stirs up fresh anxiety in him; he attempts to play along, let Rassilon tire of the game, but the silence breaks him first. 

“Is, er…” Narvin clears his throat. “Is something the matter? Has there been a development with the Ysalus situation?” _ Not that there _ is _ an Ysalus situation, _ he adds silently. _ Or ever was. _

Rassilon regards him a moment longer, something flickering in his eyes that Narvin can’t identify. “No,” he says at last. “In fact, I believe it should come as no surprise to you that the War Council doesn't want you anywhere near the cleanup of that particular chain of events.”

Narvin doesn't know how to respond to that, so he remains quiet. There’s a beat. Then, to his surprise, Rassilon rises from his seat and stalks slowly around the desk. He’s _ tall_, Narvin realizes abruptly—well, he knew he was tall, of course, but he hasn't actually stood so close to him before—and as he approaches Narvin finds himself fighting not to back up. It’s the eyes, he decides, standing in front of the resurrected President and wishing he would sink into the floor; there’s something wrong with his eyes, in a way he hasn't a word for and can't explain, but knows in his hearts, feels in the same parts of his mind that sense the flex and flow of timelines. There’s an intense, unshakeable awareness that this body doesn't belong to Rassilon, that inside those eyes is a being much older, much smarter, much more dangerous than any body of Valerian’s could ever convey. 

Narvin swallows hard, apprehension fluttering in his chest. “Sir?” he asks. 

Rassilon tilts his head. “On your knees, I think,” he says. “_Deputy Coordinator._”

Something shorts out in Narvin’s mind, then; he blinks, struggles to make sense of the words, suddenly unable to breathe quite right. “I– I’m sorry?” he stammers. 

“You heard me,” Rassilon hisses, his indifferent expression twisting into a glare as he takes a menacing step closer. Narvin does back up this time—he can't help it—and gathers himself enough to decide it’s unwise to disobey, especially right now, especially while alone. His throat tightening with growing panic, he kneels as composedly as he can, carefully laying his robes around him. He fixes his gaze on the floor. 

Rassilon hums in approval. “I do believe you’re beginning to exhibit a pattern,” he says, all false civility once more. “What happened, I wonder, to the agent once described by his superior officers as _ exemplary_? Oh, don't answer. I know.” He takes another step closer. “Gallifrey is at war. During these troubling times, insubordination is not only bothersome, but dangerous as well. I’ve no need for it. And nor do any of the trillions of civilizations we stand to protect.”

Narvin inhales sharply at the touch of a finger beneath his chin. Slowly, inexorably, his head is tilted upwards, until he’s looking up into Rassilon’s eyes. 

“My lord,” he breathes, almost too quiet to hear over the pounding of his own hearts. “What– what are you… I– I don’t–”

He stops, the words catching in his throat as Rassilon brushes his thumb over his chin; his keen gaze traces the movement, taking in every ounce of Narvin’s uncertainty and discomfort and fear, his wide eyes and flushed cheeks, his lips slightly parted as he struggles to keep his breathing even. Narvin hates that Rassilon can see it so effortlessly, hates that he can't mask it well enough, hates the tiny smile that turns the corners of the President’s lips as he notes it, _ savours _ it. His fingers almost burn where they touch Narvin’s face, his every instinct screaming at him to get them off _ now, _ but he can't bring himself to resist. 

“You don’t?” says Rassilon, a hint of amusement crawling through his tone. “Oh dear.” The smile drops from his face. “Clasp your hands behind your back. Do not move. Do not speak unless spoken to.”

He does. He’s almost glad to, for his hands are trembling hard enough that Rassilon has surely noticed, and it’s a small dignity to be allowed to hide them. It’s starting to hit him now, really hit him, what’s happening, what’s about to happen; his last desperate hope that he’s misinterpreted Rassilon’s advances is being stripped away by the second, and he’s left scrambling, fighting to keep up, to find a way out. Instinctively he wants to analyze, predict the most likely outcomes so he knows what to expect, so he can choose the best course of action. But he _ can't _ act, not against _ Rassilon, _ because whatever Rassilon says is final these days and Narvin isn't sure he could resist if he tried. He isn't sure he could move. And he thinks, in this case, he would rather not see those possibilities; if he imagines it, runs through all the things Rassilon might fancy doing to him, then he’ll surely be forced to choose where he draws the line, at what point he’s willing to risk his job, his little resistance, his life, his friends’ lives. He saw Trave make that choice. He doesn't know if he can. 

Despite being entirely unrestrained, he’s never felt so powerless in all his lives. 

He waits, his anxiety swelling into full-blown, hearts-tripping panic, as Rassilon peruses him. He bends down to get a better look at his subject, cold mirth evident in every line and angle of his face, his collar casting Narvin into shadow. He grips Narvin’s chin, lifting it to expose his throat; he strokes his fingers over his cheekbone, his temple, a silent threat lurking just outside his psychic barriers; he runs his fingernails along the line of his jaw, scratching through his beard, and Narvin is suddenly overcome with a memory of Leela doing the same, grinning fondly at him as he laughs at the sensation. The contrast makes his stomach turn, and a poignant fury constricts around his hearts—how _ dare _he intrude on that memory? 

Rassilon sees it, he’s sure, like he sees everything else, and he makes a small noise of consideration. He leans close, so Narvin can feel his breath on his cheek, and murmurs, “How far would you follow me, Deputy Coordinator?”

Narvin draws a trembling breath, steadying himself enough to speak. “As far as necessary, Lord President,” he says, his voice wavering pathetically. 

“Will you obey me, in the future? Any order, for any reason, to the letter?”

“Yes, my lord,” he whispers. 

“Anything?”

He swallows, and gives a tight nod, feeling as though he’s signed his own death warrant. 

Rassilon’s grip on his jaw tightens. “I do mean _ anything, _ Narvin,” he says, low and quiet. “And I expect you–” his lips brush the shell of his ear– “to prove it.”

A sob rises in his throat, harshly suppressed. His eyes sting; he shuts them, and steels himself, and nods again, and waits. 

To his surprise, Rassilon draws back. He lets go. His footsteps sound on the hardwood floor as he walks away, around his desk, and sits. Narvin doesn't dare open his eyes, kneeling as still as if he really was trussed up rather than the pantomime, glad to have Rassilon’s hands off him but too cautious to let himself believe he’s being let off with a warning. 

It’s a long, tense moment before he’s put out of his misery. 

“Get up, Deputy Coordinator.” Rassilon’s voice rings out in the empty room, utterly disinterested once more. “Our business is concluded.”

Narvin’s breath leaves him in a rush, his head spinning as he fights not to collapse out of sheer relief. He takes a moment, letting the ringing in his ears cease before he attempts to rise, even as it filters back into his awareness how undignified his position is. He’s hit with the absurd desire to thank Rassilon, quite literally, for letting him go; this, he resists. He has grovelled enough out of necessity. He would never forgive himself such a concession. 

“Yes, my lord,” he says quietly, dragging himself to his feet. His entire body is shaking violently, his knees threatening to give out, but somehow he manages to walk across the room, open the door and slip outside. Rassilon’s eyes bore into his back the whole way—that horrid, void-empty stare. He shivers. 

Romana spots him right away, and ceases her pacing to hurry up to him. “Narvin, what–” She stops. She must see something, in his expression, in his posture, something to tell her that everything has gone so, so wrong, because her eager expression plummets into dread. “Narvin?”

The adrenaline is draining away now, leaving him weak and unsteady, and if he weren’t still in the eyeline of the guards he thinks the maelstrom of emotions alone would be enough to do him in. His eyes begin to water as soon as he sees Romana, and he bites his lip hard to stop it trembling. 

“Let’s go,” he says quietly, passing without a pause. “Let’s just go.”

“Narvin?” She jogs to catch up, concern etched into her tone and her face. “Narvin, what happened? What’s wrong?”

He draws a shuddering breath, in and out, and shakes his head, keeping his gaze fixed ahead of him even as his vision blurs until he can barely see. Just this once, because he cannot let himself come apart now, not until he’s well away from here, he dares to reach out, and Romana takes his hand without a moment’s hesitation and holds it tight, and murmurs assurances ever-so-quietly as she guides him along. 

Narvin laughs, because Rassilon has only succeeded in reminding him: he _ would _follow his President as far as necessary. And he is prepared to prove it to her. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at [stcrmpilot.tumblr.com](https://stcrmpilot.tumblr.com)


End file.
